Feuer Frei
by your pretty death bed
Summary: Official first chapter and second chapter up! The sounds of screaming bowed to and were drowned out by the ring of a single shot. Bang.
1. Anmerkungen des Autor

Feuer Frei - Anmerkungen des Autor

I know, I'm a horrible little twit for not giving you an ACTUAL chapter as my default chapter. But I just wanted to get this started while I had all the ideas down on paper, and before I could decide to leave this alone and unfinished like this one Harry Potter fic I started. I want to finish this! I'm a procrastinator, have little patience, and a short attention span, so I don't usually do long fics. I want to, though, so I'm doing this to make myself continue.

I'm slightly masochistic?

Yeah.

This is a fanfiction of ten chapters, and it is post-time stands sill part one. It covers my version of the school shooting, NOT the real one, for you see I live in America and it has yet to air here. le sob I have a fetish for foreign languages, so I decided to title each chapter in a single non-English language. I chose German. Hooray Germany! I used an online translator, so the grammar in these are probably off. The (supposed) English version of each title will be put at the end of each chapter. If I sit down and write it now, I can get the first chapter up later tonight. For now, though, the summary of the story will be the summary for the first chapter. Please have patience, because I have none!

This also serves as one massive disclaimer, so I don't have to write one in each chapter, so listen up: I. DO. NOT. OWN. DEGRASSI. I don't own Degrassi. In any way, shape, or form. I don't own enough money to buy Degrassi, either. Nor do I have any plans to steal, thieve, or rob Degrassi. This is done FOR FUN. For kicks. For shits and giggles and angst, if you will. So, please, keep your lawyers at bay.

Also, "Anmerkungen des Autor" means "Notes of the Author".

I'm damn dorky.


	2. Wie Stöcke reißt er

Wie Stocke reiBt er

(Like sticks, he snapped)

Wiping the cheese from my face and the feathers from my hair, I can stand it no longer.

Do...do they SEE? Their own eyes, unglassed and without contacts and without blindness, watch and flicker at me, like malicious fireflies in the dark world of a cynic! Do they honestly just sit back, comfortably nestled in their chairs, and watch a tortured soul whipped again and again? Do they watch my pain, innocent and unscathed as vanilla cupcakes? Do they? Oh, God, I beg you to answer my inquiry! Do they really?

They, with their crooked, scheming smiles...they make me want to vomit and write my heartache on the walls of our very own high school! The foul stench of gastric juices would fill the air, and I would grin as they cough and hack their ways into their classes, and as the janitors try to scrape the dried puke from the walls! Ha! They'd scurry their way about the halls like terrified mice and begin to flounder like a gutted fish! They, those uncaring little pricks, would see what they've pushed me to. Those bitches. Those fucks.

Even before I'd even met Terri, they always would shove me into a deserted locker, slam my face into my lunch, take my books, rip my homework, spread rumors...Most of all though...they beat me. Beat and beat and beat...Steady, predictable, expected...Like a person's hearbeat. A kick, a punch, a push, a slap...As long as I was put into their hands as a trembling rodent, they were absolutely jolly. They would laugh as I wept on the sidewalk or ran off to treat my bruises. These pretty bruises became a reoccurrence for me. I became callous to the pain they put me through, and I would sometimes even draw my arms in art class...They were always an awfully deep shade of purple. A deep, manipulating, demented, reminicing shade of purple, that reminded me of my sessions with them.

Those sessions, when they beat me...

I did what any logical person could do about it. Its not like I sat there and took the beatings. I tried to pin them down with Radditch. There was no evidence that it was most definitely them, and my case went cold for so long. I would always try to bring it up to Radditch, but the man just did not want to admit that there was so much violence and hatred going on in Degrassi. It was sick. He seemed like a sadist, allowing and possibly even enjoying seeing me come back to him time after time with my purple limbs flailing in my pleading. It was disguesting to see him just lean in his leather chair and nod. All he did was nod, he never ever jumped from his seat and demanded that action be taken from higher powers. I was always the victim with these people. Always the victim, the one on the collared end of the leash instead of the handle.

Transferring to another school would have been useless and cowardly. That would only be letting them win. I could never live with myself while knowing that their smug, smirking mouths are chattering away about how Little Ricky was too afraid to come back to school, how Little Ricky was too much of a girl and a sissy to come and take his "punishment" like a man...Talking and laughing about how Ricky was terrified out of his pants of merely coming to school. I would have heard, even from the distance of another city, the faint, low giggle of how Ricky was so nasty and icky and horrible. Becoming a recluse would've done the same thing. From the safety in my room, the same snivelling, hypocritical gossip would have reached my ears, and I still would get my scheduled beatings...With becoming a recluse or transferring, my ears would ring with cruel words and my bruises would never have a chance to heal.

I then thought of maybe another outlet for my anger and anguish. I remembered that this one girl in my class, Ellie Nash, used to slice her arms up with a razor because she's depressed. I remember seeing her cuts one time...I think she's trying to stop by using a rubber band. Ha. As if that'll work...But the notion of cutting myself once did occurr to me. It seemed like a good idea for a moment, and I tried it to see if it would work. I cut myself along the arm, horizontal on my bicep. For a second, it felt good. As blood seeped over the cut, I sighed in relief and felt the pain of my soul pulsate into a raisin. My cut was instead the focus of pain...It took pain away from my mind. It was definitely refreshing to feel actual blood on my skin rather than ruptured vessels underneath. But with just one cut, I began to hate what I'd done. It took a while to heal, and while it did, it burned. I just wanted the initial pain of it, the newness of it, not the itching reminder of what I'd done. I decided not to cut.

I once thought of fighting back the next time they tried to beat me, to act like a loony around my classmates. I thought about taking on the role that they had so hideously bestowed upon me...The nutcase, the psycho, the crazy violent guy...I thought about being the guy who would burst out and hit random people. But like the transferrence...that would only be letting them win. Moreover, it would earn me more beatings, and earn them more things to talk about! It would be an even worse conviction than I have right now! What a waste that would be...And cruel as well.

I can no longer even think about what I can do about this. Everybody is against me, even the girl who I thought loved me...Emma. That bitch. That fucking whore. How could she deceive me like that and lead me down such a road? I swear to God I'll get my revenge on her...I'll get my revenge on all of them...Someday...someday soon...

I think I want to die right now.

But if I go down, they're going down with me.

Heheh...

Fuckers.

_"Why cry when angels deserve to die?" Chop Suey by System of a Down_

**Author's Notes**: First Person. Rick. Title meansStay tuned for more.


	3. Durchlauf

Durchlauf

(Run)

A figure of an orange-yellow persuasion trudged up the stairs of Degrassi Community High School, clutching a backpack to their chest. Their angry eyes gazed out of stained spectacles and their lip trembled in fury with each step. The suit this figure wore was splattered with cheese and decorated with feathers, and it dripped upon the ground in his wake. The figure entered the building, with any passerby staring in awe at his bizarre adornments.

The figure entered the doorway. Laughs filled his ears, and he flinched at the sound. He dreaded his wretched sound, this horrible sound! It only reminded him of every beating he received for what he did for Terri. _The pain that I've put upon myself_, he thought, _has been enough to kill me as it is_. He did not look any of his peers in the eye, but just kept both robotic pupils upon one target, who was standing at the end of the main hallway, fiddling with the combination of his locker, not paying any attention to the slow-walking figure. Once the figure reached him, he just breathed heavily in rage till his target looked at him.

"What do you want, Rick?" the boy with a half-shaved head asked sharply. He looked at the cheese-ridden figure as if they were some sort of contagious disease that the boy did not want to catch. He grimaced as the cheesy one reached inside his backpack.

"Goodbye, Spinner," Rick muttered. He pulled his hand out of the bag to reveal a sleek, shiney, silver pistol. It glistened maliciously in the sunlight, and seemed to cackle as Spinner was stricken with horror. He stumbled backwards in surprise of the gun, and tried to scramble away as Rick aimed it at him. For a moment, an insane grin flashed accross Rick's face and the trigger went back into the crook of the gun.

Suddenly, the laughter that once plagued his ears turned to horrified screams, as Spinner's bloody body fell to the floor, shot in the back.

Every face in Rick's eyes suddenly turned to a blank canvas, begging to be splashed with a violent crimson paint. The entire hallway became a blur of screaming, crying, sweating human drama. He relished in the power. In this, Rick was the masterful God. He dictated to whom he gave life, and from whom he took it. He would strike them down, like Zeus, with a mighty bolt of lightning, a mighty steel bullet.

More silver flashes dashed about in the air and found their targets. Running to find the faces that he recognized and hated, he would put more of his small, silver-colored minions to find their bodies and embed themselves into them. His determined features twisted in rage seemed to only fixate on one thing at a time.

His sense of hearing suddenly failed him, and everything was silent. Only a moment before, he could hear the terrified screams of student and teacher alike; the scuffle of so many shoes on linolium; Radditch booming on the intercom, ordering everyone to get into a classroom and go into a lock down; the screams of the sirens...Now everything was silent. Even when he pulled the trigger, he heard no sound. His fixation muted the sounds of everything around him. Numbness...had become his best friend.

The head of a stickly blonde girl came into view. He knew that this slab of meat had to be slaughtered. Of everyone, he knew that she had to kneel, beg, and bleed. Her panicked face instilled great satisfaction in him. To Rick, this bitch was getting what she deserved. She was taking what she had given him. Rick felt dead inside. He blamed her.

"Hello, Emma," Rick said cheerfully, giving her a warm smile. Emma's horrified face looked up at him with tears streaming down her cheeks. She fell on the floor and tried to get to the nearest classroom, but she found it impossible. As Rick's faux-cheery smile faded, he pulled the trigger again and ran. Emma fell completely flat on the floor, shoulder throbbing and eyes gazing out to see her own blood on the floor. Everything suddenly went black for her.

The halls were entirely devoid of screaming. Rick could hear nothing in the air but the squeaking of police boots and the shrieks of ambulance sirens. He leaned against the stall of the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He still had cheese on his face. He shook his head and heaved a great sigh, placing the gun in his pocket. Rick approached the sink and turned on the water, took off his glasses, and splashed it on his face. He felt so disguesting for what he was. He knew what he did was wrong, but that wasn't why he was so angry at himself. He was angry because he confirmed yet again what they believed he was: a violent person.

His fist hit the mirror, and Rick's knuckles bled generously. He wanted to smash the face of the violent monster that had slapped Terri...that was the beginning of it all. His first and last girlfriend...abused! She was the only one he really cared about, and he had put her into a coma. Rick as furious with himself once more.

Rick took the handle from out of his pocket. He paced back and forth quickly in the bathroom, thinking about what to do whilst police officers ordered that he come out of the now locked bathroom. Rick reverted to his original plan. Holding the gun at arm length and parallel to his head, he turned the barrel toward himself and snapped his eyes shut, bracing himself.

_"I'm staring down the barrel of a .45" 45 by Shinedown_

Bang.

**Author's notes**: Arrrrrr. I'm a fucking pirate with two eyepatches and two peg legs. Stay tuned some more. You know you want to.


End file.
